


Affairs of the Heart

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Betrayal, Cherry Tarts, F/M, Friendship, Heartbreak, Light Angst, Self-Sacrifice, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 16:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14773523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: Nothing could ever come between one of the most legendary friendships of all time - except perhaps the love of a woman.





	Affairs of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for the May 2018 Fete de Mousquetaires competition with the theme “Betrayal.” Please take a moment to vote for your favorites. My gratitude to Issai for her beta-reading skills and kind support of all of my scribbles. The mistakes are all mine, the characters are not.
> 
> The fic played out like the subplot of an episode in my head as I wrote it, so I tried something a little bit different than my usual writing approach. It’s dialogue heavy and a slightly different style. I’d love to hear comments about that too if anyone is so inclined.

—ONE—

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like,” Porthos said, lips tight, eyes closed, trying to hold still.

“Having your beard shaved,” Aramis‘s tone bordered between incredulous and offended,“By Serge.”

“And?” 

“That’s hardly an answer,” Aramis said moving closer to where Serge’s large hands had just shifted the blade below Porthos’s chin, “Give me that,” Aramis said, gesturing for the blade. Serge gave Aramis a squinty-eyed glare but handed the blade over with a grunt and shuffled away toward the kitchen. “Hack,” Aramis called out to his retreating form. Serge only grunted again, punctuating it with a hand gesture rude enough to make the stable boys gasp.

With an exasperated curse, Porthos Rose from the stool, but Aramis replaced Serge behind the big musketeer and pressed him back into his seat. With a delicate but insistent finger under the chin, he tipped Porthos’s head back against his stomach. Aramis swished the blade in the basin of warm water at his side and then settled it at Porthos’s Adam’s apple.

“How much are we taking off today?” Aramis’s amusement was evident. Porthos was not prone to preening and rarely had an opinion. He gave a low growl as he resigned himself to Aramis serving as his barber. 

“All of it,” he said quietly.

“Excuse me,” Aramis said, “I don’t think I quite heard you.”

“All. Of. It.” Porthos ground out, exasperated.

“Well,” Porthos could hear Aramis’s eyebrows arching, “That’s quite the change,” Aramis began to lightly scrape the blade along Porthos’s throat.

“So who is she?” Aramis asked casually.

“Who is who?” Porthos tried not to move as he spoke.

“No man in Paris shaves off his beard without a woman at the cause,” Aramis swished the blade in the water again, starting now on Porthos’s chin.

“Not your business,” Porthos found it very difficult to speak without moving his chin.

“The women of Paris are specifically my business, mon ami,” Aramis’s tone declared he was not to be challenged on this.

“Not this one,” Porthos’s word was final.

“Ah, but you admit there is a woman then,” Aramis was sly like that. Before Porthos could respond, the blade was above his lip. “Be still, I would not want to send you back to your lady love with a cut upon these delicate lips.” Aramis gave a little hum of surprise at the unguarded hatred blooming in Porthos’s eyes.

“I have considered a hairless face myself,” Aramis said as the blade glided over Porthos’s cheek, “but the revolt among the courtesans would rival the Huguenot uprising. My mustache is legendary.”

“Just like your ego,” Porthos hoped rolling his eyes would not have an impact on his facial muscles.

“Be still, let me make sure there is not a hair left,” Aramis wiped Porthos’s face with a damp, warm cloth, then flicked the blade here and there to address any whiskers that had escaped the first pass, “There, now. You look nearly as green and inexperienced as D’Artagnan,” Aramis looked quite pleased with himself as he smiled down at Porthos. Porthos gave that odd growl again then grabbed the damp cloth and ran it over his face and neck. He stood and let out a deep sigh, turning to face Aramis as he cleaned the razor. 

“It’s alright then?” Porthos asked.

“A little late to be insecure about it,” Aramis laughed but then his gaze softened, “She will love it. You are actually a very handsome man now that you don’t look so much like a bear,” Aramis’s eyes twinkled, “It seems I will have to put more effort into maintaining my position as the most sought after musketeer in the regiment.”

“You’re an idiot,” Porthos said as he walked toward the stables, Aramis’s laughter following him.

—TWO—

Sparring with D’Artagnan was never a casual affair. It took all of one’s concentration to keep ahead of him and all of one’s energy to keep up with him. Therefore Aramis was quite astonished to find D’Artagnan land in the dust after executing an eloquent but not exactly effective punto reverso against the young swordsman’s attack.

“What happened there?” Aramis asked, taking a moment to catch his breath as he stared down at D’Artagnan.

“I was distracted,” D’Artagnan said his eyes wide as he stared up at Aramis. No, actually, not up at Aramis but past him. Aramis gave a little hum and turned toward the Garrison gate to see what D’Artagnan was staring at. It turned out it wasn’t a what at all but a ravishingly beautiful woman standing a few paces beyond the archway obviously looking around for something, or someone.

“Distractions can kill you,” Aramis said, shading his eyes with his hand to get a better look at her.

“That’s not a terrible way to die,” D’Artagnan sounded a bit wistful as he pushed himself to his feet and came to stand beside Aramis, both of them transfixed on the beautiful creature before them.

“What might the lovely Madame Bonacieux say about that?” Aramis couldn’t help himself on that one.

“Given the circumstances, she would understand,” D’Artagnan was nothing if not an honest sort, “I think she’d be distracted too.” Aramis gave a snort and raised a brow. Although perhaps D’Artagnan was not off the mark as she was indeed one of the most beautiful women Aramis had ever encountered. It seemed the lady in question had found who she was looking for as she gave a wave in their direction. Aramis let a smile bloom across his face as he waved back.

“You know her?” The awe was evident.

“Please, D’Artagnan,” Aramis said as he pulled up his braces and unrolled his sleeves, “I know every beautiful woman in Paris.” He gave the young swordsman a friendly pat on the shoulder, smiling at the incredulous look on his face, “Mademoiselle de Bussy and I are quite well acquainted.”

“Mademoiselle?” Aramis did not like the hopeful tone of the question.

“Recently widowed,” Aramis corrected as he shrugged on his coat and perched his hat on his head, “And definitely not here to visit you,” the marksman flicked his gaze over D’Artagnan, “I’d clean myself up a bit before returning to Madame Bonacieux this evening. You are quite flushed from sparring.” Aramis gave D’Artagnan a broad grin before making his way to meet the mademoiselle at the gate. He was acutely aware of the silence in the courtyard, all eyes trained toward his beautiful quarry; he adjusted his swagger accordingly.

“Mademoiselle de Bussy,” Aramis caught up her hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips, “It has been a very long time.”

“So formal, Aramis?” the mademoiselle giggled, “I would think we are such intimate friends that titles are not necessary.”

“Much has happened since that time,” Aramis felt the rush of memory threaten the steadfastness of his heart. “My condolences upon the death of your husband,” He could not help but flick his gaze across her body, “I see you no longer wear black. Has a year passed so soon?”

“Hardly that!” Her voice had a light melody to it, much like Adele Basset, “You know I have never been one for following the rules. You and I are much alike in that as I recall.”

“Indeed,” Aramis was remembering all of the reasons he liked Mademoiselle de Bussy, “Although experience has tempered much of my impetuousness.”

“Oh, Aramis, it is not even possible for me to believe that!” She was still holding his hand he noticed as she pulled him slightly closer to purr in his ear. “You will never be tamed.” He cocked his head and gave her a lopsided smile.

“Tamed? No man really is,” Aramis felt a curtain slide in front of his heart, “but reckless abandon comes with consequences I am no longer willing to pay.”

“Are you saying you have nothing but regrets for me?” She pulled his hand to her lips and gave his knuckles a series soft kisses. He inhaled and held still, catching her smouldering gaze when her eyes slid up to find his. They connected in that, two flames that together burned hot. He caught the shift in her glance before she boldly licked the inside of his hand, “I see no regret in your eyes, Aramis.”

“Why are you here, Symonne?” The low roughness of his voice surprised him but the tightness in his gut did not.

“I am in need of a Musketeer,” her voice was sweet but her eyes were hungry. Aramis’s battle reflexes were instinctual; he took a step back.

“The Captain’s office is up the stairs,” he said with a tip of his head toward the wooden staircase, “I’m sure he’d be happy to entertain any request you may have.”

“I’m not looking for the Captain,” she furthered the distance between them, dropping his hand and shifting her gaze, “The Musketeer I want is just behind you.” Her teeth flashed white and sharp as a tiger’s as she smiled.

Aramis stepped to the side and glanced behind him. The tightness in his stomach shifted to grip his heart.

“Mademoiselle de Bussy,” Porthos was nothing less than resplendent as he gave a half bow before taking up her hand to chastely press it against his lips. He straightened and shifted his gaze to Aramis. “You two know each other?” Aramis heard many questions at once.

“We are acquainted from Court,” the lady slid between them like butter on toast, “But as Aramis reminds me that was long ago. We were just reminiscing.” Porthos chucked and seemed at ease as she tucked her hand into his arm.

“Old friends,” Porthos smiled at Aramis, “You should keep it that way.” 

The pair stepped past him and through the gate, lost to the world for what passed between them. Aramis followed a few steps behind then stood to watch them walk away until he lost sight of them in the crowded street. He tasted the tang of blood where he had bitten his bottom lip.

—THREE—

The bells tolled for Vespers just as Aramis approached the door. He had about an hour by his reckoning which would be more than enough time. He was not interested in a prolonged assignation but since his encounter with Symonne de Bussy two weeks ago he knew this had been building. Aramis was incapable of putting his feelings aside when it came to matters of the heart. And this was close, close, close to his heart. He knocked.

“Monsieur Aramis, welcome back,” Lisette, the chambermaid, offered an enthusiastic smile as she ushered him to Mademoiselle de Bussy’s boudoir. “My Lady said you would be calling, although I think she had believed it would be last week,” Lisette curtsied before she let herself in the bedroom door to announce his arrival to her lady. 

Aramis took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. He found it uncomfortable to think that she found him so predictable. The door opened again and a half-dressed Symonne de Bussy emerged, sending a thrum of desire through his body that he really should have been expecting. Some reactions were simply physical.

“I cannot think of a more delightful thing than to find you in my bed chambers,” her eyes gleamed as she offered her hand to be kissed. Aramis complied, noting the softness and the sweet smell of rose water as he delicately pressed his lips to the back of her hand. She raised a brow, “You are as demure as a virgin today,” her laugh was musical. She pulled him to the window seat and he sat on the edge, remembering all the things he had done to her cocooned inside it’s curtained depths.

“Here we are again,” she let the dressing gown slip down her shoulders as she leaned on her elbows against a pile of silk and brocade cushions

“What are you playing at, Symonne?” Aramis was truly curious. She giggled, and patted to a spot closer to her side.

“Nothing yet,” he’d always enjoyed the feline quality of her voice, just on the edge of purring. She started to pull at the ribbons that fastened her chemise.

“Symonne,” Aramis caught up her hand, “Stop.” She give a derisive little hum and pulled her hand from his grasp, pushing herself up from the window seat and shrugging her dressing gown up over her shoulders. She poured something amber and lush into two crystal glasses.

“You’ve turned in to such a bore, Aramis,” She took a long sip as she extended the other glass to him. He raised a brow, insisting on more than just a drink. “Fine,” she smiled, “I’ll tell you,” she held the drink out again and this time he took it.

“I take it you are concerned for your Musketeer,” Symonne smiled at him and sat down again, this time taking up his hand as one might to comfort a friend in distress, “You truly needn’t be. Porthos is a dear and I count myself lucky to have found him.”

“He is not one of your playthings, Symonne,” Aramis knew full well that while he himself might have been a favorite at the time, he was just one of many in a long string of affairs. He hated to think of Porthos as another ornament in her collection.

“You think so little of me,” Symonne batted her eyes, “This is an affair of the heart. I love him.” Aramis almost snorted the brandy through his nose.

“As much as you are capable of loving anyone, I suppose you might think that. Porthos is a good man, with a kind heart, and it will not withstand your brand of love,” Aramis squeezed her hand, smiling at her fondly, “Move on. For any love you once bore me, please, do this.”

“You are a little late, my love, as Porthos is to be my husband,” Aramis went still. “Oh, the look on your face!” She laughed her musical laugh as she stood to refill her glass, “He will ask me tonight, although I’m not sure he realizes yet.” She was smug as she settled herself into an armchair like a queen in her receiving room. Aramis stood.

“You intend to marry him?” This was not at all what he had expected, “Why?”

“You don’t believe I love him?” There was something sour in her voice.

“No, I do not,” Aramis said with a wry smile, “And even if you believed you did, why him? Why would you marry an untitled soldier from a questionable background? What are you at Symonne?”

“I need a husband,” her tone became matter-of-fact, like she was choosing sausages from the butcher, “It is difficult to be a single woman in Paris, and even more so when you are a widow with land, titles and money. I have to remarry or potentially forfeit my fortune to the crown. And that is something I will not allow to happen. I’ve worked too hard to earn this.”

“But why Porthos?” Her motives for anything were never particularly clear but he was determined to have the truth from her, “There are any number of nobles better suited to your purpose.”

“I do not wish to make the same mistakes with my second husband as I did with my first,” she gave a little snort, “Henri was a tight-fisted old goat who doled out a pitiful monthly allowance that barely kept me clothed. I’ve grown used to my freedom and I intend to maintain it. I need a husband who will respect me.”

“You need a husband you can control,” Aramis countered, “And you seem to think that is Porthos.”

“He is sweet,” her face softened, “And so very in love with me. The King will grant him a minor title, Viscomte or some such, and he will live off the allowance I set him and be grateful for it. A man with his background is so much more malleable. And the fact that he is easy on the eyes, and pleasant enough in my bed, makes it perfect,” she gave him a wink, “I’ve missed having a Musketeer as my lover. It will be such a lovely consolation prize for losing you, don’t you think?

“You were hardly a spurned lover and it’s not like there wasn’t another to take my place that very afternoon,” Aramis balled his fists against the rage that was slowly building. She would not twist this thing to make him culpable, “Why would the King support this? He knows Porthos to be a Musketeer, not a noble. It is hardly a thing that is done.”

“Do you forget, Aramis, that I secured my place with the King long ago,” She stood and moved in front of him, “With your help, I might add. I am still ever so grateful.” Her eyes were cold as she trailed a hand over his face. “You were so willinging then.”

“I will regret my role in Louisa’s death until the day of my own,” Aramis felt the old guilt clench his heart,, “But I was hardly willing. You used the troubled soul of a lonely woman. You twisted her mind and broke her heart. When they fished her out of the Seine, bloated from three days in the water, they found she had carved a fleur-de-lis in her arm before she had jumped,” Aramis fought to keep control of his emotions, “It’s only by God’s grace that I didn’t join her.”

“The noble Musketeer willing to follow his lover to the grave,” she said it with desire in her voice, “But here you are. You survived. So perhaps your instinct for self-preservation is as motivating as mine.”

“No, there is nothing in me that is like you,” Aramis stepped away from her, looking out the window as the sun set fully over Paris. They were just beginning to light the lamps, not quite as late then as he thought. He turned back to Symonne his face set in a mask of regret.

“Her father came to me days later with letters, signed only by the initial S, encouraging her to an affair with me. Trinkets and tokens I had given you were passed on to her with declarations of love for her that I supposedly confided to you. You set yourself up as a go-between for an affair that never happened. I made love to her once, at your suggestion, never understanding the plots you were weaving. You manufactured her despair. You caused her to think she was in love with me and then I had cast her aside. You may as well have pushed her into the Seine yourself.” Aramis heard the anger coloring his voice and couldn’t help but advance toward her, “Did you enjoy it, Symonne? Just another life you could manipulate and then throw away.”

“It was a dirty business, that,” she raised her chin and stood her ground, “But I did it to survive. Louisa had caught the eye of the King, and I was not about to let that simpering fool from Normandie take my place in Louis’s bed. There is more power in being the King’s mistress than there is in being Queen and I’ll die before I lose my position. You were convenient, a beautiful and willing target for her affections. I don’t recall you complaining after taking her to your bed. And you reaped your reward too. Or did you think you earned that commission to the Musketeers all on your own?”

Aramis moved closer, standing over her as she stared defiantly up at him, “I know I earned my commission. I know the depth of your lies. I am not so naive as I once was,” Aramis set his glass down beside the brandy bottle and drew back his shoulders, “You will not have Porthos. I will tell him everything.”

“Aramis you should stick to being pretty,” her musical voice struck an ugly note, “I’ve been playing at intrigue since you were a boy. Porthos is bound to me and he will forsake his sword brothers in the Musketeers as easily as that dolt cast off his whiskers at just my word. He will not believe anything you tell him about me. He will not put you above me. His heart is as much mine as Louisa’s was.” 

She put down her glass and gave a tug to the bell rope, revelling in the victory over the Musketeer who had dared reject her, “This is already done, Aramis. Be happy for him, for I will not treat him unkindly. Perhaps you and I will even be friends again after all is said and done.”

Aramis shook his head, unable to find words to even rebuke the suggestion.

“You’d best be going my love,” he had forgotten how she could coo, “I have an appointment to keep.” 

Lisette, summoned by the bell, opened the door and gave a curtsey, “Show Monsieur Aramis out, Lisette. Then find me some supper and come up and help me dress. Tonight is to prove an important occasion.” She stopped at the bedroom door and turned to him, “In all honesty Aramis, I so very much hope I will see you at the wedding.” The closing door echoed hollowly through the room.

Lisette escorted him out and opened the front door, but Aramis paused, taking off his hat and turning to her with a sheepish smile. “I am almost ashamed to ask, Mademoiselle,” he looked down at her coyly through his thick lashes, “but are you still the author of the most delicious cherry tarts in all of Paris?” Lisette gave a pretty blush from cheek to brow. She had always appreciated his compliments and there was a slight bounce to her step as she ushered him down the hallway to the kitchen. 

—FOUR—

Lisette was uncertain about lingering in the doorway but that did not stop her from presenting herself for one more long kiss. He kept her close, her now unbound hair spilling in a golden cascade over her shoulders. His hat was pulled low, and he promised her no one would recognize her from the street. She giggled, thrilled by the bit of scandal she was causing in her Lady’s doorway. She had missed Monsieur Aramis as surely as her Lady had, and their game of tarts for kisses had been a secret she had smugly kept from her Mistress. Lisette too had ambitions.

But her Lady was expecting company and it would not do to be found in the doorway in the embrace of a brash Musketeer, no matter how handsome he was or how perfectly his lips seemed to blend to hers. No, she gave him a little giggle and a shove and pushed him to the doorstep, carefully staying in the shadows of the hallway were no lamps were yet lit. It would not do at all for her to be seen and for gossip of her wantonness to reach the ears of her Mistress. Symonne de Bussy was known to be a jealous creature. With a final shove she sent the handsome Musketeer into the night, giggling at his protests as she closed the door.

—FIVE—

Aramis was sighting his next shot in the practice yard when a large hand unexpectedly grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Caught off guard that he would be attacked within the protective confines of the garrison he didn’t have time to bring up his musket in defense before a meaty fist caught him in a right hook. He staggered and fell, pain blossoming along his jaw as he landed hard in the dust. 

“Hey!” He called out, anger propelling him to his feet. “What the hell—“ his protest was cut off by another punch, this one landing on his nose with a sharp crack that echoed in his head. He fell again, blood gushing down his new shirt.

“Stay down,” it was all but a growl. It was possible Porthos could actually be mad enough to kill him. He stayed down.

“You son of a bitch,” Porthos’s hands opened and closed as if considering all on their own if they would haul Aramis up and hit him again, “You can’t leave well enough alone, can you? You can’t help yourself.”

“Porthos, let me explain . . .”

“Stop talking!” The big man cut him off, “There is nothing to say. I saw you leaving. I saw your fond farewell in the doorway. Do you even care that I have feelings for her?”

Aramis held tightly to his nose, trying to stop the blood as he struggled to find an answer that might appease his friend. He had not considered he would be in this position when he confronted Porthos, beaten and bloody in the middle of the garrison with half the regiment looking on. 

“Of course I care,” the words were muffled by his hand over his nose, “I would never see you hurt. By my honor I would not see you suffer.”

“Your honor is worth nothing as soon as you put down your musket,” Porthos’s eyes flashed dark and dangerous as he loomed over Aramis, “When it comes to women you are nothing less than a snake. How do you live with yourself and the damage you do? Have you bedded all of my lovers? All of theirs?” He gestured to the dozen men standing in witness around them.

“Is that what she told you? That I bedded her?” Aramis asked quietly.

“She denied it. Came up with a ridiculous story. I might have believed her too, had I not seen her in your arms not moments earlier. How many times did you visit her? How long have you both been playing me for a fool?” Porthos’s anger was dissipating, replaced by a sadness that could only be birthed by betrayal. Aramis’s heart ached.

“Just the one time,” Aramis said honestly, “I was only there once and I went on account of your welfare.”

“My welfare?” Porthos snorted, “I was just fine until you showed up.”

“I am sorry, mon ami,” Aramis felt a lump rising in his throat, “It is as you say. I cannot help myself when it comes to affairs of the heart.” He looked up at Porthos searching for forgiveness in his friend’s eyes but saw only sorrow.

“Stay away from me,” Porthos said darkly, “We are done.” He turned and walked out of the garrison, leaving Aramis bleeding in the dirt.

—SIX—

“Let me see it,” it was an order this time.

Aramis sighed and moved the bloody cloth from his nose, allowing Athos to take up his face between his hands. He was perched on the table in the garrison, their table he reminded himself, in a blood soaked shirt with Athos for a nursemaid. The throbbing in Aramis’s head grew worse.

“It’s definitely broken,” was the report, “It looks terrible.”

“Leave it be,” Aramis closed his eyes so he would not have to meet the deep waters of Athos’s blue ones. Nor did he care to be manhandled just now. “It will be fine.”

“It needs to be set back in place,” Athos’s thumbs slid gently, even tenderly, along the sides of his throbbing nose, “Trust me that you do not want it to heal like this.”

Aramis was thinking that it might be a blessing if his looks were ruined when a sudden pressure assaulted his nose and with a twist and a pop it was snapped back into place. He howled, truly he did, for the pain of it but at the same time felt the great release of pressure that had been throbbing behind his nose. His head felt oddly clear. Athos kept a hand on his cheek and the other on the back of his neck until Aramis opened his eyes and gave a reassuring nod that he was not going to pass out.

Aramis dabbed gingerly at his nose with the cloth while Athos picked up the bottle of wine and sat on the table beside him. There didn’t seem to be fresh blood on the cloth so he cast it aside in exchange for the bottle Athos passed him. The courtyard was thankfully empty, everyone having gone to the Wren to comfort Porthos and to talk about Aramis. Aramis swirled the wine in his mouth and spit. He could add a split lip to the catalog of injuries.

“Aramis, you are a rake and a rouge, that we know,” Athos said as he reached for the bottle, “but you are no traitor to your friends. Tell me what really happened.”

“And if I told you it was not your business,” Aramis had not intended to tell anyone, particularly not Athos who was already burdened with more than his share of secrets between the antics of his two best friends. 

“We would be resetting your nose again,” there was not a trace of humor in Athos’s statement. Aramis was inclined to believe him.

“She didn’t love him, she was using him. I couldn’t let that happen,” that was in fact the truth of it.

“Could you not simply have told him?” Athos asked.

“He would not have believed me,” Aramis sighed and reached for the bottle, “He would have called me jealous, petty, possessive but he would have believed her over me and he would have married her. Athos, I swear he would have and then we would have been forced to watch her make a mockery of his vows to her,” Aramis took a long drink as he considered what to say next, “Porthos is not like you or me. He is more like our young Gascon - he has a tender heart and he longs to give it. I could not let him give it to someone who would break it.”

“So you broke his heart instead?” Athos could always find the crux of a situation with little more than a nudge in the right direction. He took up the bottle and waited patiently for Aramis to tell the rest.

“Better he give up on me than give up on love altogether,” Aramis felt a hollowness in his chest at the thought of losing Porthos’s friendship, but his soul was at peace for the rightness of his actions, “Porthos deserves a wife who will love him with all of her heart and what kind of friend would I be if I let that be taken from him.”

“But bedding his lover?” Athos raised his brow, “That is insane even by your standards.”

Aramis chuckled, “I did not touch Symonne. Certainly she is beautiful, but my attraction to her died long ago in that business over Louisa Mornay.” Athos nodded, remembering well the scandal and the rumors of Aramis’s involvement. He had eventually learned the truth from Aramis, and had watched a change in his friend’s romantic entanglements after that. He never again took a woman in his arms unless his heart was also present.

“So then what Porthos saw . . . ?” Athos prompted.

“Was what I wanted him to see,” Aramis gave a chuckle, “Me trading kisses for cherry tarts with Symonne’s chambermaid in the darkened doorway. I knew he’d be there just after the lamps were lit and Lisette always was fond of me.” Aramis ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “It was the right thing to do, but it hurts nonetheless.”

“He will never forgive you,” Athos said.

“He may yet,” Aramis said with a thin smile, “He knows me remember. He knows my nature. My healthy attraction and deep commitment to the fairer sex. He will see it was not a betrayal of him, but perhaps of myself. As he said, I cannot help it.”

“That is a deep gamble,” Athos placed the empty bottle on the table, “And then there is of course the part where you didn’t actually do it.”

“That, mon ami, is another secret of mine I fear you must keep.” Aramis did not know Athos to be an easily demonstrative person, but he did not hold back either at those times when his heart ruled his head. He appreciated the gesture as Athos slipped a comforting arm around his shoulders.

—SEVEN—

One week to the day Aramis’s new shirt was ready. D’Artagnan brought it from Madame Bonacieux’s wrapped in brown paper and a bit of string. Aramis undid the bundle after muster, shaking out a pale lavender shirt with fine stitching on the cuffs and collar.

“She feels sorry for you,” D’Artagnan explained.

“Really?” Aramis laughed, “I’m surprised she made the shirt at all. She mostly hates me, as does most of the regiment these days.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” D’Artagnan took a big bite of apple and chewed around his response, “She just thinks you are an idiot.”

“That’s not particularly comforting,” Aramis carefully folded up the shift and laid in on the paper wrappings, “Please convey my deep gratitude for her fine work.”

“Of course,” D’Artagnan took another bite, “I’m fairly certain the Captain needs to see me,” he added, gesturing toward the garrison gate. Porthos had just entered and was heading straight for their table. As they had all been doing for the last several days, D’Artagnan made a strategic retreat as Porthos approached. Aramis sighed as he gathered up the shirt, not ready to face another day of brooding silence and unspoken accusation. It may have been the right thing to do, but it was not easy to live with the consequences now.

“New shirt?” Porthos asked as he laid his sword belt on the table. 

“Yes, Madam Bonacieux’s handiwork,” it was the first words that had passed between them since that afternoon. 

“I like the color,” it was about as civil a thing as could be said at the moment. Feeling emboldened at not having been chased off, Aramis too put his sword belt on the table and took two cloths and a bottle of mineral spirits from the wooden chest he had brought up from his rooms. Porthos began to inspect the tangs and bolts on the blades while Aramis took to cleaning. The routine was comforting.

“Was on duty at the palace two days ago,” Porthos said, not looking up from his work, “I saw her.”

“Mademoiselle de Bussy,” Aramis knew of course who he meant but didn’t actually know what else to say.

“She was on the arm of a peacock in blue lace,” Porthos’s opinion of the man was clear, “She walked right past me. Not even a glance,” Porthos paused and Aramis glanced at him, noticing the growth of a new beard shadowing his cheek. Something warm fluttered inside Aramis’s chest.

“I hear she is to be married.” Porthos’s words were heavy.

“I am sorry, mon ami,” Aramis said putting down the blade and folding his arms, “I know she meant a lot to you.”

“Not even a week, Aramis,” Porthos stopped his work and looked up at the marksman, “Seven days ago I thought I would be the one marrying her,” Porthos fidgeted with the blade in his hand as he spoke, “Even when I told her I had seen you, she denied everything. She begged me to believe her, swore she was faithful, said she could not bear to live without me. I’ve blamed you for all of this. I’ve thought about forgiving her, about going back to her. She told me she would wait for eternity for me.”

“And now?” Aramis knew the question was guarded, was careful, but it was Porthos who had started the conversation and Porthos who had something to tell him.

“She cast me aside as if I was just a worn pair of shoes,” Porthos said with an ironic smile, “And that woman has lots of shoes. More than I ever suspected.” Aramis nodded, understanding Porthos’s meaning.

“It wasn’t right, Aramis, what you did,” Porthos said, looking him in the eye, “But it’s who you are. And apparently it is who she is too.”

“You deserve better than both of us,” Aramis said.

“Yeah, but I seem to be stuck with you anyway,” Porthos grumbled and tossed down the first balde to pick up his main gauche, “Pass me that cloth will you, this blade looks sadder than your hat on a rainy day.” Porthos gave Aramis a snide look and Aramis replied with the perfect gesture of feigned insult. They got back to the business of the weapons in front of them, working silently, side by side. The tension between them eased slightly promising to eventually give way to a friendship that was stronger than any affair of the heart. 

—Fin—


End file.
